


In Gray Marble Stone

by hopefoolromantic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Everything Hurts, Exes, F/M, French Characters, Hurt, One Shot, The Author Regrets Nothing, enjonine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28216638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefoolromantic/pseuds/hopefoolromantic
Summary: He comes back home after eight long years. She shows him his name inscribed in gray marble stone.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	In Gray Marble Stone

_He was in an unfamiliar land, staring down at his name inscribed in gray marble stone, along with three vertical bars. A familiar voice had told him that he missed the wake, and so had asked him why he even came._

Enjolras had dreamt about it for countless nights before his flight back to Paris. He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know it'd be a foreshadowing of significance. He didn't understand all that, and he thinks he's just about to.

He was sitting in Éponine’s passenger seat. They had just ditched her husband’s 40th birthday party. Surprisingly, the celebrant was kind enough to permit his wife’s leave. A leave with her ex, of all the goddamn people in the goddamn world.

Her husband irked Enjolras, that was no secret. Partially because he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut for his own good. Totally because the elder man had what the younger didn’t.

_It irked him. He knew he should have heeded that unsolicited piece of advice from Combeferre: “I don’t think now is the right time for you to visit the Musain.” And damn how right he was. He is the group’s guide for this crystal clear reason. As for their stubborn leader though, he could do nothing but to endure what seemed like a cursed conversation with this painfully kind husband of his ex._

_It irked him that the elder man kept on calling him "Attorney". It irked him that the elder man kept on offering him a drink. It irked him that the elder man kept on talking about Éponine as if the younger didn't even know her at all._

_As if he didn't know her favorite band, her favorite color, her favorite food, her favorite movie, her favorite season. As if he didn't know how passionate she is in helping; how difficult she could be when she's drunk; how radiant she looked in the mornings. As if he didn't know she preferred Poe over Shakespeare; she preferred to drink her coffee during night over day; she preferred her brown hair cascading over being tied._

_But still, even if you think you master and memorize someone very well, there are things that you just don't know. And as for Enjolras, he wished he didn't have to._

_"You're the reason why she's the strong woman she is now."_

_"She told me you made her believe in love again."_

_With those words, he grabbed abruptly the half-full bottle and emptied it fast. He paid no mind to the expression of the birthday celebrant, which was a mixture of shock and amusement. No, Enjolras didn't drink. His friends knew that. Éponine knew that. And perhaps the birthday celebrant did too. But perhaps it would be a whole lot easier to give in to alcohol than to give in to what he feared the most: losing her for good._

_Enjolras just wished her husband would shoot him right there—just as how the artillerymen in his nightmare did, right before he was magically teleported to some forsaken cemetery. He would much rather prefer that kind of pain. He would much rather be killed by guns than by kindness._

_It irked him. The birthday celebrant irked him. Not only because he's a goddamn loquacious army general, but also because he’s such a great man. A great husband._

_Enjolras had seen how he treated Éponine . It was with a love that seemed so strange and so unusual. The way she smiled at her husband, he could tell that they shared something that he never will understand. He's never seen that smile grace those lips before. Enjolras doesn't know how he does it, but he can see that her husband makes her happy. Perhaps that was all he needed to know._

“A penny for your thoughts, Attorney," he heard her say, with that cheeky grin forming on those lips. The only grin and the only lips that he could ever tolerate.

He rolled his eyes inwardly at the title. She still knew damn well how to tease him. But as long it was her who called him that, he'd let it pass.

“Curious as ever, are we?” He crossed his arms against his chest, and laid back to the leather cushion of his seat.

“Pensive as ever, are we?” Éponine shot him a look, grinning playfully, then looked back to the road that somewhat kissed the orange horizon. 

The sun was only halfway through its course. He stared at it wistfully, recalling those moments from so long ago, when they aimlessly watched it set hand in hand. Not that she'd tell him though, but she actually had a portrait of one that featured the two of them along with Les Amis, hanging on their bedroom wall. Not that her husband would mind it too though.

"The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?" He smiled. One of those from so long ago, that she knew he had each time he was musing about some deep, serious shit.

"You know I dislike small talk, Luc." Surely, there are plenty of more intriguing topics to converse about when you haven’t seen each other for eight long years. 

And oh, that stupid nickname. God knows how much he despised that name, which he unfortunately got from his father, and yet he let her call him that all the same. And even went to the extent of allowing her to come up with a nickname. A nickname, for fuck's sake. Then he vaguely remembered their friends teasing, _"She calls you 'Lucien' and she gets away with it?"_

Enjolras chuckled, both at the memory and at her candid remark. Same old ‘Ponine.

He, then, rested his head on the headrest and prepared to declare this one thing that he wished he would have said when he’d seen her in the arms of another, earlier today.

“I'm just glad to know you're happy.”

She grinned. It was one of those grins from eight years before, which he knew she flashed each and every time she had something up her sleeve. 

She combed her hair with those delicate fingers, then repeatedly tapped onto the driving wheel. “It’s all thanks to you, actually.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if that was sincerity that he’d sensed, even if he couldn’t clearly see through her brown eyes. He only was certain that there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her voice. 

“Had you only stayed, I never would have met Leo.” She raised her eyebrows giddily. “So as ridiculous as it sounds, _thank you so much_ for leaving me heartbroken eight years ago.” Then she cackled like a madwoman, and threw her head back, exactly how she did when he’d crack some lame jokes before. Or that particular moment when he was forced to dance because of a stupid game of truth or dare.

As for Enjolras, it took all of his self-restraint to not apologize, to not turn this car ride into some awkward reunion of exes. Not to mention, exes who hadn’t even been officially in a relationship. He left, he ran before they'd even had the chance of establishing one. He really is beyond sorry for hurting her like that. Then again, he knew damn well that apologies would not make the scars of yesterday fade away. 

All he could bring himself to do now was to cackle along with her lightly, and to simply roll his eyes once more, both at her decision to use irony to tell him how huge of a loser he was, and at her decision to tease him yet again with the oh so fancy title.

She wasn’t throwing shade, not at all. She just wasn't the type to do so. It was all good fun to her, he believes. And well she must have been mad indeed: both mad-angry and mad-crazy. To the young attorney, it seemed a whole lot more like the latter. Expressing gratitude to someone for breaking your heart must be an art: a subtle art that only Éponine Thénardier knew of. 

He would be lying if he said he didn’t regret leaving though, for if he could turn back the hands of the clock, he would have stayed. He would have chosen his hometown over some foreign city. He would have chosen his friends over his arrogant classmates. He would have chosen her over one stupid degree. Hell, he would even give up his license to go back and make things right.

But of course he could do no such thing. All he could manage now is some stupid small talk about his flight, about his new flat, and his love life, or lack thereof.

Occasionally, the car would go silent and then only the honk of impatient cowboys' horns may be heard. Soon, he'd ask her how her siblings are. In return, she'd ask him about his parents. _Yes_ , they hated small talk. They really did.

"Your car is red," he said, as if the vehicle's overly striking shade wasn't enough proof.

But she knew precisely where he was coming from: mere jokes from eight years ago wherein she promised him that her first car would be red; he promised her that he’d get a Lamborghini in return. Practically, they were only children back then. Dreamers.

"You remember," she said, fixing her focus on the wheel. There neither was doubt nor question in her tone. The statement was one proud declaration. 

Of course he did remember. He just doesn’t forget, so he couldn’t really rid himself of the not so beneficial and positive effects of remembering: that horrible sense of guilt. 

He remembers promising her they'd graduate together too. He remembers promising her he'd take her to New York because she just wouldn't shut up about the famous statue gifted by the French. 

He's always been good at promises but the aforementioned sounded like a couple he just couldn't fulfill. So if a goddamn Lamborghini, that would cost his arm and leg, would be his only opportunity of keeping one for her, he’d risk it without a doubt.

"Your hair grew so long," she commented after moments of tense silence. She turned the radio on, after stroking her longer tresses one more time. " _But_ for the record, I prefer it short. You look much neater that way."

They shared a laugh. Somehow, it felt like they were brought back in time. During those afternoons in the Musain when Bossuet trips himself over right in front of a hottie, or when Combeferre arrives after bailing Bahorel out of jail, or when she sips her coffee without realizing it was way too hot.

“Would you cut it for me then?” 

He was kidding Yes, of course he was only kidding. Still somehow, he only said what he said because he'd missed the feeling of her fingers brushing through his locks. And judging by the way she’d dismissed his teasing question with a mere chuckle, he knew that there was no way it's ever happening again.

So he just made a mental note to get a haircut as soon as he can, even if there was no assurance of meeting her again after today. She's the only one whom he'd want to impress after all.

Then he found himself smiling sadly as she began humming along with the song on the radio: In My Life by The Beatles. Their song. Well, they did at least claim it theirs eight years ago. He just wished he didn’t have to recall the way they used to dance in his dimly lit kitchen, when that song came around during holy hours of the night.

“It’s our song, Luc. You _do_ remember, don’t you?”

He nodded in affirmation. How could she ever think he didn’t? Perhaps it was because she didn't know about the way his world stopped turning each and every damn time he heard the song during his stay in New York. She didn't know the way he sang the song to himself each and every damn time he missed home. Each and every damn time he missed her.

"It’s nice to listen to the song again," he said, eyes on her as she maneuvered the wheel down another street. "With you," he added, quickly looking away when she turned to meet his eyes of blue.

"I guess it must've been lonely, living so faraway from your friends." 

"Well, not when you receive updates so often." He let out a little laugh, remembering the text messages he's received from Les Amis through the years he’s been gone.

_Combeferre: Leaving without a proper farewell? You’ve disappointed us all._

_Cosette: You've made 'Ponine and little Gavroche so upset. I hate you so much._

_Bahorel: I'm going to kill you. Better man up and grow some balls, idiot._

_Joly: Did you know that one can literally die of a broken heart?_

_Feuilly: We’re on speaking terms again. She’s been doing great after graduation._

_Courfeyrac: She's found herself a boyfriend. The name's Napoleon by the way._

_Marius: I've married Cosette today. I still regret that we didn't get a double wedding with you and 'Ponine._

_Gavroche: I’m the best man in my sister’s wedding, just as you promised._

_Musichetta: I'm bridesmaid. She looks so happy!_

_Jehan: The wedding was lovely. Funny how old Thénardier showed up and looked for you though._

_Bossuet: She looked very beautiful. Napoleon is indeed one lucky man._

_Grantaire: He treats her well. More than you ever will._

"I bet they didn't tell you about Thirdy then." She cocked an eyebrow.

"Never mentioned." He shrugged. “So, what exactly is the big deal about this ‘ _Thirdy_ ,’ huh? Why didn’t your husband tell me himself? Why must it be you instead? And where the hell are you planning to take me?”

She believed he was kidding. He had to be. How could he not put all the goddamn puzzle pieces together? He was the best at that, as far as she remembered. Perhaps he was only playing dumb. Perhaps he was just afraid to face the truth, just as how she was eight years ago. 

“Ugh, you'll soon find out but for now, you have to shut up the fuck up about it."

Eight years gone, and that tongue of hers is still sharp as ever. 

Her words only meant he was up for a surprise. A not so pleasant one at that.

They fell in simple silence for almost the rest of the ride. Most times, he'd steal glances only to find her staring blankly at God knows what. And he thanked Him that they haven't run over a pedestrian or something, because as far as he was concerned, she was an awful driver.

He debated on whether or not to tease her about it, but he just settled on observing the view outside. To Enjolras, Paris seems to be exactly how he left it eight years ago. The weather. The people. The streets. The streets have stolen his attention for a while. These cobblestones hold so much of the life he had known. 

These streets have listened to him and his friends when they used to vent their ramblings after a tiring day at university. They have seen them stumble and heard them sing all out of tune after a fun night at the Corinthe. 

These streets have seen how he used to scamper along with her when they were running late for early morning classes, since they may have been a little too engaged in 3am conversations to even keep track of time. They have seen how he used to chase after her around because she was being too much of a tease, and they have heard her squeals each time he lifts her up to the air after finally catching her.

These streets haven't missed one genuine smile, one longing glance, or one tender kiss. These pavements of dull silver had been true witnesses of the love once shared that had not been proclaimed, and so had been lost over time.

These streets will never forget how she used to beam at him, how she used to run her fingers through his mop of gold, how she used to tell him his hair was unfairly a lot more gorgeous than her own. 

These broken streets have seen him grow, and have seen him grow apart from all the people that he so dearly cherished.

Enjolras remembers everything too. As he looked at her, with her not knowing, he felt like he was 22 again. It’s as if nothing ever changed. As if he never even left. 

"You're spacing out again." She cleared her throat. Then the vehicle went to a halt.

He blinked multiple times to drive the nostalgic thoughts away. "I'm sorry.” He messed with his hair, in frustration. “You were saying?"

"We're here." She smiled, as she unbuckled her seat belt. There was a hint of uneasiness in her somewhat cheerful mood. That had his heartbeat doubling, for some vague reason.

Readying himself both for the best and for the worst, he followed her outside, and moved closely behind her. They were in a tremendous ground, filled with the greenest of preserved grasses. The tallest of trees likewise were scattered all around. A graveyard. It's as if he was dreaming again. He could only wish he was. 

When Éponine stopped, however, he knew it was all real. He froze and paled as the realization hit him harder than a fast-moving train.

He knew it. From the very moment he'd climbed in the passenger seat of her car, he had the tiniest bit of speculations. Right now, he knew exactly where this was all going. But he refused to accept this type of consequence. He refused to admit its reality. He refused to recognize the loud beating of his heart and the mild trembling of his hands.

He watched Éponine look down, but his eyes just couldn't follow where she was staring at.

"Hey, Thirdy.” He heard her begin. He just watched her with immeasurable hatred for no one but himself. It was the stone she spoke to. She’s done this plenty of times before, he could tell. And no, he would not be judging her. Not when he is the one at fault.

Because he couldn't bear the sight before him, he gazed up at the sky instead, as if compelling it to come and save him from whatever the fuck he had gotten himself into. 

Based on her calm tone, however, he was sure she was smiling by then, if only fake. At least, he hoped so. She had to be because he couldn't bear to see her cry, and he couldn't afford to cry with her presence. And with the presence of his name inscribed in gray marble stone, along with three vertical bars.

"I promised I'd let you meet your papa someday, right? Here he is now, mon cher." She turned to look at Enjolras, finally. But he let her face his back, as he refrained his eyes from watering quickly. He did his best to steady himself but there was no hiding the instability and the pain that his entire being had reflected.

"Please don't cry, Luc." She laid a hand on his shoulder gently. He felt the urge to just pull her close to him, but instantly suppressed it. “Not while I’m here at least," she joked. Lame. It was a lame attempt to lighten up the mood. Still, he wouldn't hold it against her. She hated sappy melodramas, and in some ways, all of this was becoming one.

With the saddest of smiles, he turned to her. He couldn’t help but question how she managed to contain her tears. Was she not hurt? Was she not angry? Of course she was. She used to be, at least. He just didn’t know that she’d let it all out in the midst of all those years he’s been away. 

That day he'd made his first ever friend in law school, she wept. That day he'd landed on his short-term practicum, she wept. That day he'd graduated with the highest academic distinction, she wept. 

No, he wasn't beside her when she did. And right now, he could only wish he was.

“I’m sorry, ‘Ponine.” His blue eyes were attempting to turn red. He rarely apologized, she was well aware. And out of all the very few times he’s ever said sorry, he meant this one the most. Because this time, he fucked up the worst. He swore every single day from now, he'd beg for her forgiveness. Even if it was something that he couldn't even grant himself. 

She understood. She always did. There was not a trace of resentment in her beautiful brown eyes. But she didn’t want to dwell on the matter any longer. Thankfully for her, he was mindful enough to sense her need to breathe. Apparently, they both needed some air, and so he didn’t dare decline her offer to go on a stroll around the solemn grounds.

Simply wandering about wherever their feet would take them, it felt like they were in college again. Light footsteps, comfortable silence, and the gentle breeze of the wind sending a few strands of their unkempt hair across their faces.

If it wasn't so wrong, he would reach for her and tug on that loose strand. If it wasn't so wrong, he would reach for her hand and hold it tighter than he ever did before. If it wasn't so wrong, he would lock her in his arms and never let her go. If it wasn't so late, he would tell her. 

"'Ponine," he called. "Even if I never said it out loud, you knew back then that I . . ."

She paused in her tracks, causing him to do the same. She knew what he had in mind, yet she no longer wanted to hear it. With that shimmering glint in her eyes, she smiled at him. "I felt the same for you, Luc. So of course I knew."

He felt his fists balling. He closed his eyes, if only to avoid seeing that rueful, woeful look in hers.

"I still do."

"I also knew you were an early bird, Attorney,” she said, jokingly. “But this time, I'm afraid you came around late." She laughed lightheartedly, and he could do nothing but join. 

He was late, she was right. Eight years way too late. 

He hated that she showed no sign of fury at all. He knew he would have dealt better an infuriated, vengeful Éponine than a friendly and forgiving one. He could take a punch or a slap; he could take curses, but not her indifference.

They were nearing the headstone before one of them could even notice. As he saw his name in exquisite stone carving once more, he felt his whole world freeze again.

"June 5th," she said. Then she chortled at how his face slightly contorted. "Thirdy's birthday, in case you wanted to know."

He only nodded his head. He still couldn’t register what on earth was going on, and what on earth he was doing wherever he was. The only feeling in his throbbing chest was an unknown ache. Something he didn’t know he was capable of feeling.

The last he remembered was a short embrace, a bittersweet “goodbye,” and the noisy start of an engine. He didn’t even bother to watch her fancy red car disappear from view. For right in front of him, the only thing that he saw was the headstone of someone he never met, and that of someone he knew he would be willing to trade his life for.

He stared at his name, which he’d just learnt that he now shared with two people: one who’d watched him grow up, and one whom he wouldn't have the chance to see how. Slowly, he sat down beside his namesake. Little by little he began to cry. Silent sobs turned into wails. He grieved. He wept. For the love he’d wasted. For the people he’d lost.

He said to the marble grave all that he couldn’t tell the living: "I love you and your maman so much.”

 _"Lucien Enjolras III"_ He traced every letter with the same delicate care he had when he used to caress her cheeks.

Drowned in his own tears, he glued his eyes on the name he would have gladly used to address a child. Then he remembered how she did it with him.

_“It’s our song, Luc.”_

_“Please don’t cry, Luc.”_

_“I felt the same for you, Luc.”_

Despite his bleeding heart, he managed a small smile. After all these years, at least she still called him Luc.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you've made it this far, thank you very much. I'd love to know your thoughts about this. It took a while to write this down, so it's such a joy to have it finally done now. Ideas are all over the place, I know. But hey I've tried. :'D


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